A Violin Teacher's Diary
by AnnMore
Summary: Wherein the young and not as yet famous Benedict Cumberbatch gets initiated in the wondrous art of violin play and succeeds in something completely different. M for reasons. You may have noticed that this is neither parody nor spoof, I simply wasn't sure where to post my story. My excuses to those you expected any of those. I do hold that my story is not devoid of humor:
1. Chapter 1 Tuesday

**Tuesday**

He is just like they told me. Tall, pale, with dark curly hair glued down to his scalp quite slatternly (I know they have dyed his natural ginger). Unusually high cheekbones, slightly slant feline eyes, set rather far apart from each other. He sits awkwardly, stooped like a little boy. His loopsided smile is broad and shy. He clearly has no idea why I had to sit down and pull my knees abruptly together when he entered my studio. I wonder how long it will take till someone makes him aware of his own exotic charm and ruins a great deal of it. I've seen this happen.

If I didn't mind to teach him play violin? (His voice, surprisingly, is a very deep, rich baritone; it sends shivers through my backbone). I don't, obviously. If only because teaching violin to actors is a not insignificant part of my income. I have developed a special technique for such cases: it comes down to virtuously and inspiredly faking the violin play; most of my clients in this category come expecting nothing else. My new student wants to learn it in earnest and he means it. I look at his stubborn pout and see a diligent, hard working school boy with lots of ambition. I am sure his mother is invariably proud of him, and quite rightly so. I smile and warn him that I am a severe and demanding teacher. He nods, he is OK with it, and again, he means it. I supress another smile. His face is of an unearthly, solemn beauty when he means things.

And still, most probably it would have been a regular assignement, nothing special, a lucrative bit of faking. But then, the hands. Big, sensitive, emanciated hands of a Michelangelo saint. Most graceful, very long, gaunty fingers with pronounced knuckles; a bit off-standing, bony thumbs. His hands are a piece of art by whatever god charged with human perfection. They fly around his face, touch his ear, scratch his shoulder, his knee, they hover above his head drawing explanatory circles. They brush over his full lower lip, trace and retrace the impeccable Cupid's bow. These are eloquent, expressive hands. Exhausted, they will always return to the same spot, - on the either side of his croach, - and rest there cosily interwoven, thumbs perked up.

We discuss formalities: he will be coming twice a week, on tuesdays and thursdays; this at least one month long. We practice the right position of the body and the hands. I focus on my words, control my face muscles and look straight in front of me or where the moment requires. In the end, he nods off, shy and respectfull: apparently, I have lived up to my self-proclaimed stern reputation. Which was a joke. When he leaves, I draw a shaky breath.

For the rest of the day, I put him out of my head. I do my houshold routine and prepare for tomorrow. I watch TV dutifully. I iron the linen.

I decide to take a bath late in the evening. This is when I pull my knees apart, positioning my feet on the edges of the bathtub. I have no choice but to loosen that heated and swollen knot pulsating in my underbelly. I have to get some sleep tonight. I draw small circles around the button that seems to be connected to every single nerve in my body. I let my fingers slide inside me, pull back; I spread myself as open as possible; bath water filling me is excruciatingly hot. I savage my most sensitive spot the and shudder with rapturous pain. It is a torture, and it is delightful. I come undone with a gasp. I dry myself thouroughly with a fluffy towel.


	2. Thursday

Thursday

He is already in my studio studying photos on my desk. I often leave my office open when I run risk to come late. He turns around, his face is endeared; the photos are of my son and I tell him so. I shouldn't have; it makes you seem way older than you are, I know from experience. (I am not that much older; not that it matters). However, I am rather glad with that. I am determined to keep as much distance as possible.

The next thing I notice are his boots. Well, it is hard not to. These are really large, knee-high motocycle boots, clinging heavilly to his calves. He follows my glance, blushes and apologises. He takes his motorcycle when he has overslept. Oh. Involuntarily, I picture him, entangled in sleep-damp sheets, waking up with a jerk; jumping up, cursing, pulling the jeans up his long, gangly legs and groping around for a clean shirt; judging from the unruly mop of uncombed hair and somewhat red eyes, this is a rather truthful representation of his morning. l trace the seam of his skinny jeans up to his slender waist, I fathom slightly protruding hips and a flat belly down under. His shirt is nonchalantly tugged in and hangs loosely around the throat, with more buttons undone than necessary. I spot surprisingly dark dawny hairs down the hollow at the base of his throat; I am deluded into smelling the warm odour of sleep around him, mingled with something else, youthful, and illicit, associated with messy rooms of young boys (he is not that young, a grown-up man, I remind myself, he only has the air of a teenager. A thought of my own son - although he is only 6 - makes me feel inexplainably guilty). My mind keeps generating images: I see a female hand grabbing at his waist, pulling him back into bed; I hear a laughter, a low chuckle. 'Damn, my violin lesson'. More laughter, groan. Fifteen minutes later, he straddles his Harley-Davidson. He arrives on time.

I force myself to cut the stream of associations immediately. We have to work.

We learn names. Scroll, pegbox, fingerboard. Upper and lower bouts, waist. He touches every part of the violin - my instruction violin - while I name them, thoughtfully, as if giving his own names. I explain why the violin bow will need rosin and we exercise by applying some right away. I show him first; he takes it over from me very carefully, gently rubs the bow hairs up and down a few times. The bow looks so small between his long, graceful hands. There is solemnity about him when doing all this. He is not learning a craft. No, he is a neophyte being initiated into the rites. He lifts up his eyes, smiles, I smile too. Our rites. We repeat the positions, postures. Sitting, standing. We stand face to face, I guide his movements, straighten him up - as he tends to stoop - , make him stand with feet shoulder width apart, knees relaxed. I pat on his left knee, tell him to slide the left foot slightly forward. He looks right at me, without seeing; out of a sudden, he is a tall wiry man with eyes of steel, not a teenage boy I know, far from it. He is someone else, just like I am someone else when performing. Yes, it is a craft. His craft.

...Dark curls bounce against his forehead as he runs down the stairs and jumps onto his motocycle. He wears a helmet, and a safety vest, a good boy on a kick-ass Harley-Davidson. His jeans are really tight. He looks up to my window and waves; instinctively, I leap aside, without any reason whatsoever. I curl myself up on the windowsill, my heart wildly pounding. I close my eyes, but my giddy mind's eye follows the lanky figure in a leather jacket roaring away with an enormous speed down the road. The next moment, in the corner of a dead-end street, a woman is kneeling between the strained thighs of a young man in skinny jeans, his one bony hand on the small of her neck, the other - on the motocycle behind them.


End file.
